Belated Valentine's Sentiments

Every once and a while a peer or older person gives you a piece of advice that sticks with you for several years afterwards. Sometimes they don't know that they are saying something profound at all.

One of my favorite English professors once said, "never use the preposition 'through' in your writing unless you are talking about walking through a door." It was the kind of advice that I could apply instantly to improve my writing. It also taught me that there are things in this world that are concrete--that words mean certain things. Often in my mind words and ideas give way to one another and come out meaning the same nothing. This advice saved me from the throes of linguistic despair.

A religion teacher at my high school gave me a different kind of advice as he addressed my senior class on a retreat. The speech itself escapes me, but I retained the most valuable part, I think. "Whatever you do," he said, "always, always, be in love." He verbalized something that I had always noticed in myself, but thought nobody else knew about. It struck me most of all because the previous evening we were asked to make resolutions and I made the very resolution he was calling us to make. I think that I have been true to this vow, though the portrait of love in my life is blemished and weathered.

So two days late (even though Valentine's Day is pretty meaningless, right?) I'm making a beverageless and partnerless toast to that which makes my heart tingle and skin go warm.

Late night drives home through silent nights with infinite intentions.
Deep red wine rolling around in my mouth beside romance languages.
Floral metaphors tucked into lines of Shakespeare.
Croissants at sunrise and falling back in bed.
Garlic crackling in a pool of olive oil on my stove.
Flying down Everett on the Peugot in the summer.
Friends' laughter after finding the right word.
Black coffee in a mug held in both hands as the rain starts to fall on my scarf.
The brown hills of California underneath the sunset after soccer practice.
American poets and the smell of their old pages.
The swirl of chocolate in the morning before anyone's said a word.
Running over dirt through trees to catch my imagination.
The people I have loved and have loved me back.

Thanks.